I need to get back into writing, as well. I enjoy it immensely, and I think I'm not too bad at it.

Hey, that gave me inspiration... thanks Junkie! I think I've forgotton that I actually enjoy it ... it looks better now

You should check out some of the stuff I've posted here.

Edit: They may have been pruned. I don't know, I can't find them.

oh, I was gonna ask :/

Here's one. I was going to make it part of a book or short story, but I think it's self-contained and serves its purpose as-is.

Quote

Chairs are symbols of circumstance. An employee might, much to his disgust, be confined to a chair for eight hours doing paperwork or some other repetitive task. Conversely, a king utilizes his throne to signify his limitless power and authority. Somewhere in the middle, there are the more mundane uses, such as to eat dinner, to watch television, or to simply avoid standing. Not for James. James had no choice in the matter of his chair. He had been sentenced to death.

James sat in his chair, drenched in sweat and shaking uncontrollably. The only thoughts racing through his mind were both irrational and fragmented. Until now, he had never completely understood the concept of “your life flashing before your eyes.” He longed to relive every happy memory he had ever experienced. He wanted to see his family, to see his friends, or even to see one of his enemies. Seeing anyone would have been more comforting than what he had now. But he could see nothing but darkness and he could hear nothing but his own thoughts.

In a last-minute attempt of desperation, overwhelmed by fear, he tried lifting his arms with enough force to break the belts that bound him to his chair, but his efforts were futile. Even if he was able to break free, he would still have to contend with the warden, the guards, and the audience of his execution. James began to tremble so violently he could hear quiet gasps from the audience. He imagined some thought he was having a seizure. Others probably recognized it as a desperate attempt to escape, or a single outpouring of all the emotions one could simultaneously experience.

And then, in a brief series of moments, his desperate flailing quickly descended into stillness. Tears welled up in his eyes. He didn't care. There was no reason to, not now. There was no reason to care about anything and there was no point in dwelling on life or its memories, as they were all about to fade from existence.

What was will be no more. What will be...

In that instant realization, James embraced death. It was now the only thing that mattered. It was his last true adventure.

Though no one could see it through his black hood, he gave a brief smile as the warden signaled the executioner to flip the switch.

It's said that every cloud has a silver lining. I think for most of us, this is true. Sometimes, I think, you just have to look a little harder for that silver lining.

My cloud happens to be a transmission that I can't afford to replace. The silver lining is my walk to work. I've been walking to work for several weeks now, often agitated by both the time it takes out of my schedule and by the lack of climate control. Every day is the same. Make it to the first stop light. Wait for the “walk” light to appear on the pole, then rush to cross the street. Make it to the stop sign, to the next light, and the next, and so on.

Today was different. Today, I paid attention.

For the past few weeks, I was so encumbered by the weight of my situation that I never took advantage of the fact that the world slowed down. Today, I began my walk as any other day. Perhaps it was to alleviate the feeling of repetition that my mind veered from its usual course.

I left my house and began to make my way down the street. I noticed things I had never bothered to care about. No - I didn't just notice them... I began to appreciate them. I saw my neighbors enjoying both their days off and each others' company. I saw the withered leaves losing their grasp from the trees they had known for so long. I saw dogs in their yards, burrowing into the ground, hoping to finally catch that elusive gopher.

I turned onto the busier street in town and noticed other things, as well. I saw the bustling flow of traffic. I saw drivers honking at each other because of the minor inconvenience of waiting more than a second at an intersection. I saw people who, through the wonder of automobiles, forgot about those things I was enjoying – those things that I had also enjoyed in my childhood. It was as if my attention to the smaller things in life was connecting me to that time that I yearn for so much.

When I was a teenager, I would be irritated by my grandparents' refusal to drive “five over” on the highway. I couldn't grasp the concept that they were “enjoying the drive.” Now, in my adulthood, I feel like I am connected to them, much like being awed by these little things connected me to my early childhood.

Today, during my walk, I became part of the world, rather than hurrying through it. It terrifies me to think that growing up is forgetting about everything between points A and B. You see, when the world consists only of destinations, the world has nothing to offer.

Chairs are symbols of circumstance. An employee might, much to his disgust, be confined to a chair for eight hours doing paperwork or some other repetitive task. Conversely, a king utilizes his throne to signify his limitless power and authority. Somewhere in the middle, there are the more mundane uses, such as to eat dinner, to watch television, or to simply avoid standing. Not for James. James had no choice in the matter of his chair. He had been sentenced to death.

James sat in his chair, drenched in sweat and shaking uncontrollably. The only thoughts racing through his mind were both irrational and fragmented. Until now, he had never completely understood the concept of “your life flashing before your eyes.” He longed to relive every happy memory he had ever experienced. He wanted to see his family, to see his friends, or even to see one of his enemies. Seeing anyone would have been more comforting than what he had now. But he could see nothing but darkness and he could hear nothing but his own thoughts.

In a last-minute attempt of desperation, overwhelmed by fear, he tried lifting his arms with enough force to break the belts that bound him to his chair, but his efforts were futile. Even if he was able to break free, he would still have to contend with the warden, the guards, and the audience of his execution. James began to tremble so violently he could hear quiet gasps from the audience. He imagined some thought he was having a seizure. Others probably recognized it as a desperate attempt to escape, or a single outpouring of all the emotions one could simultaneously experience.

And then, in a brief series of moments, his desperate flailing quickly descended into stillness. Tears welled up in his eyes. He didn't care. There was no reason to, not now. There was no reason to care about anything and there was no point in dwelling on life or its memories, as they were all about to fade from existence.

What was will be no more. What will be...

In that instant realization, James embraced death. It was now the only thing that mattered. It was his last true adventure.

Though no one could see it through his black hood, he gave a brief smile as the warden signaled the executioner to flip the switch.

Wow... nice depiction of a death scene.. I like your heavy metal style in writing.... it reminded me of Bridge Over The Drina...

Eva doesn't speak English very well. She knows enough to form parts of sentences if she absolutely needs to, and she knows enough to get her job done. Her job as a cook doesn't require much interaction, so her affairs in the kitchen mainly involve the other Hispanics at work. My encounters with her tend to be brief, as I barely know any Spanish.

Sometimes speech is the least important form of communication.

I clocked out and made my way outside for what I anticipated to be a long walk. Even with my heavy jacket zipped up, the cold wind pierced it without remorse. I pulled the strings tight at the base of my hood and started walking toward the street that would lead me home. Sometimes I enjoy the walk – sometimes it's just too cold.

Eva was sitting in her van in the parking lot, apparently waiting for me to get off work. She honked at me. “Need ride?” I waved at her and nodded my head. I opened her passenger door and made my best attempt at a “Gracias.”

“Welcome,” she responded. “Too cold.” I nodded my head, yet again.

Awkward silences, for some reason, are more tolerable when neither person knows the other's language. We both knew that, had the circumstances been different, we would each have quite a bit to say. It wasn't a faulty or nervous train of thought responsible for the silence; it was our sheer inability to vocalize our thoughts to each other.

I kept my gaze fixed out my window as she drove me through all the familiar scenery I was glad to avoid that night. I saw another familiar sign for what must have been the hundredth time – the bank sign that displays the time and temperature projected a harsh 29 degrees. It reminded me of the bitter environment Eva was protecting me from. It made me wish I knew how to say more than “thank you” in Spanish.

There were the various stoplights and stop signs that took me ages to progress through. There was the 30-minute stretch of road that took us 30 seconds. There was the busy intersection where we only had to wait for a green light, rather than a “walk” sign. They all flew by in an instant, each landmark making me more and more appreciative.

I wasn't only annoyed; I was slightly frustrated. I had always seen the language barrier as a major problem, but this was more close to home than it ever had been. I tried to see things through her perspective, and my mind was somewhat put to ease when I realized her thoughts were probably identical to mine. At that very moment, she had the exact problem I had. We were both parts of separate worlds, yet our “barrier” brought us both closer to each other. We were connected by what normally set us apart.

She neared my neighborhood and began to point in various directions with an inquisitive look on her face. I responded, guiding her through several turns until we arrived at my house. I got out of her car, and, with the door still open, we smiled at each other. “Gracias,” I said, meaning it more than I'd ever meant it before.

“You're welcome,” she responded.

Before, I had been frustrated by the fact that all I could say in Spanish was “thank you.” It was then I realized sometimes that is all that needs to be said.

I am impressed!!! Seriously.. I love your style...If you complie these into a book, please let me know... I'll be the first to buy .. and spread the word....I've really gotton into your story.... what am I gonna read now

I was impressed by the pixel art!Wish I had the patience to do some pixel art too!Here is something i started working on some days ago.It's my favourite character from MK,Scorpion!I try to make it realistic as possible,if you look closely you might even see some pores.I paint it with no reference at all,just from my mind.I resized it down a bit.I'm working on his mask now.

I love looking back at the beginning of my novel and see how far I've progressed. I only started it about a year ago but I got close to 80,000 words done, and in the beginning it seemed every chapter was a massive melee (for those that haven't read the thread I'm a fantasy guy) and I wasn't very strong with conversation. But in my most recent works I've developed strong conversations and have seen my characters develop a little bit but now I am lacking the action that the fight scenes brought. So hopefully I can find a happy medium.

i started to try to make pixel stuff last night but i'm having a bit of a time trying to figure out the ppi > canvas size i should use maybe??? because i don't think i should have to zoom in as far as i am :/

I actually just use MSPaint for all of my pixel art, with the occasional help of a tool from ProMotion or Paint.net, so I just use the default settings on that. With Photoshop I wouldn't know exactly what to tell you, though the farthest paint goes in is like, 6x or 8x.

I zoom in fairly far while working on my stuff, as it helps with the detail especially, namely in larger pieces.

out of curiosity... how do you feel afterwards? I mean having sold your art piece is sth to be proud of... but do you ever miss them? or have you ever found yourself in a situation where you felt that it wasn't the right home for your art?

I started drawing just recently... I drew a lot when I was younger, but gave up when I realized it didn't come naturally (most things did back then and I tended to give up on the things that didn't. Thankfully, I've learned my lesson.) I also managed to tell myself I was terrible at it, and I believed it for years... A while ago, I started again, inspired by other artists, and I quickly discovered that maybe I haven't a lot of talent, but there's certainly some of it. Now, I felt I wanted to share.

Sorry for the quality. The original is better, some thin lines aren't even visible on this one. But here goes:

It's Link, of course. My version of another picture. I have yet to draw a picture without references that I'm happy with - copying stuff comes pretty naturally now but I'm way worse with drawing stuff directly from my head. (If anyone has any tips on how to get better, apart from practising, I'm all ears!)

Of course, it's not fully representative of my abilities, but it has its pretty moments. One of the biggest reasons I decided to start that thread was really as a drawing/writing exercise. Improvising the story as people guide it along and quickly drawing it out (or trying to anyway ) I find to be a great way to practice!

It had begun as every nightmare did: pastel flowers painted gracefullyonto a meadow side. The overgrown and lush grass danced in the windand the sun was shining brightly. There was a tree that sprawled up atthe sky in the middle of the meadow. Flowers and dainty leaves weresupported by a thick trunk and small blossoms fell to the ground, thewind carrying them across the meadow so they were peppered every whichway. It was a beautiful start to a ghastly expedition of a nightmare. Suddenly, a gray and wispy storm cloud would roll across the sunsuddenly, obscuring its gentle rays. Evie would feel herself yearningto yell at the cloud to move away, for she longed for sunshine, butshe could never utter anything. Evie doubted that she even existed inthis part of the nightmare. But she found herself trying anyway everytime. Thunder would rumble in the distance, and lightning would forkthe sky in harsh streaks of crackling electricity. The once beautifulblue sky was now black and clad by angry thunderheads. The rain wouldbegin, now, and it was as if each raindrop was acidic. One by one, thefallen blossoms would ignite and burn anyway, along with the fragileflowers. The grass would wilt to an ugly shade of gray green.

This is from in the middle of the story, which is why it doesn't make much sense.